


Unsteady

by wordsinbetween



Series: Kaspbrak/Hanlon 2016 [2]
Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Alternate Universe - Politics, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Pining Richie Tozier, Porn with Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-02
Updated: 2020-04-02
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:49:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wordsinbetween/pseuds/wordsinbetween
Summary: Eddie looks just as ravaged as Richie feels and it’s. Well. He looks fucking beautiful, if Richie’s being honest. His cheeks are flushed red and his hair is a sweaty mess, falling down towards his eyes. He’s fucking breathtaking.Or: It's been three months since Richie slept with the president, and it's all he's been able to think about. They're in London for a political summit. Things escalate. Again.
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Series: Kaspbrak/Hanlon 2016 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1632049
Comments: 14
Kudos: 138





	Unsteady

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the President Kaspbrak AU. This takes place during updates 53-54 for those familiar with the social media part of the AU. Link to the full thread [here!](https://twitter.com/princesDameron/status/1233200268512301063)
> 
> Shout-out to the council members. I love this universe and I love all of you. Enjoy!

London is as grey and windy as expected, and the annoying drizzling rain doesn’t let up in the slightest as Richie walks back to their hotel. He has a headache from the overbearing clouds and the endless droning meetings, and even though they’ve been here for two days now, the bitter taste of jetlag lingers in the back of his mouth. He squints through his rain-soaked glasses and hurries towards the bright sign of the Marriott at the end of the block.

[5:37] why the fuck is london so rainy. I’m soaked. this trip has been a waste of time so far

It’s only half past noon in D.C., but Stan still leaves him on read for fifteen minutes. Richie rolls his eyes and presses his room key to the door until it flashes green.

[5:52] It’s only been two days.  
[5:54] And I know for a fact this was your first real day of meetings, Richie. It’s been four years and you still have trouble remembering I’m the one who signs off on the final schedules for these summits?  
[5:54] Also we live in Washington D.C. you dumbass, it rains here too

[5:56] yeah but the rain here is like... extra annoying, stan. it never stops

[6:01] You’re on an island, I really don’t know what you expected. Weren’t you there last year?

[6:03] yeah but it was summer then! London in the summer I can do. winter is dumb and wet

[6:06] Please just do your job, Richie.

He tosses his phone onto the bed, groaning as it immediately bounces right off and lands facedown on the floor.

“Please don’t be broken,” he mutters as he bends over to pick it up. “Oh, thank fuck.”

He shrugs out of his wet coat and dutifully hangs it up. He doesn’t bother with the rest of his clothes; they’re all a wrinkled mess. Even his tie is lost cause. He turns on the shower and steps in without letting it cool down to a sensible temperature. It’s practically scalding on his shoulders, but he finds he doesn’t really care. He braces an arm against the tile and shields his face from the water and the blinding bathroom lights.

After five minutes, maybe ten, he’s not really sure, Richie finally feels the tension start to leave his body. He sighs and feels his hot breath bounce off the tile and warm his own lips. He trails a hand down his stomach and touches himself, almost absently. Like he’s hesitating.

“Fuck,” he says, a whisper he can barely hear above the water pounding against his skin.

He’s starting to get hard now. He tries to push every thought, every image out of his head. It’s a half-hearted effort; it works for about thirty seconds. Then he’s thinking about the flight over, the way Eddie sprawled out on the couch in his office on Air Force One. The way he looked with his tie loose around his neck, legislative report in his hands and a manila folder open on his lap, threatening to slide off his stomach onto the floor— cap of his pen in his mouth, lips wrapped around the plastic— the way his dimples looked in the bright sunlight coming in through the window as Bill said a joke—

and then he remembers the way Eddie looked in the darkness, looking thoroughly unraveled as Richie went down on him, the way his hips surged beneath his hands as he tried to thrust deeper into the wet heat of Richie’s mouth—

remembers how softly Eddie kissed him, worn out and pliant beneath his hands, stretching happily against Richie before he fell asleep, his back so warm where it pressed against his chest as they drifted off to sleep, the gentle way he stirred awake in the dim morning light—

“Fuck!” He reaches out and twists the temperature control. He gasps as the water cools down rapidly, violently.

He can’t keep doing this. Fuck. He stands there under the spray, a shaking mess. _Fuck_.

He forces himself to stand there until he can’t take it anymore, until every last thought of that night is gone and all he can focus on is how fucking cold he is.

“Get a grip, Rich,” he tells himself as he steps out of the shower, skin trembling even as he towels himself off.

Once he’s dry and dressed again, he considers knocking on Bill’s door to see if he’s already eaten dinner, but the room service menu wins him over in the end. He flips on the television for background noise while he waits, the British talking heads going on and on about trade and immigration and persistent worries about the stability of the Good Friday agreement in the wake of Brexit. He thumbs through his notes from the day’s meetings and starts typing up his summary for Stan when there’s a knock on his door.

He’s half-way through a mediocre (but very cheesy) dish of pasta when his phone buzzes on the nightstand. Another new email, something about his meeting with the National Parks director next week; not a pressing matter. It can wait.

A text from Bev, reminding him to play nice on social media while he’s in London.

[7:24] Post a few pictures! Be diplomatic! Please play nice. You remember what happened last year.

Yeah, yeah, he knows.

A text from Bill.

[7:55] Hey, Kaspbrak needs those reports after dinner. Think you can drop them off at the suite?

He rolls his eyes.

[7:56] why your legs broken

He goes back to his dinner. Bill has the same copies of the reports for tomorrow that he has, so why should he be the one staffing the president tonight?

“Because it’s your job,” he mutters to himself. Fuck you, Stan.

His phone goes off three more times, all in quick succession. He glances at the rest of his dinner and groans, his appetite gone already. Fine, Big Bill. You win this round.

[8:02] I’m going to ignore that in order to avoid punching you in the face while we’re here.  
[8:03] But I’ve got plans.  
[8:03] And I know for a fact you don’t

[8:06] how do you know grindr works here too

[8:10] I know for a fact you haven’t used Grindr since November at least  
[8:12] Even if you won’t tell me why

Richie’s face flushes hot. He stands up and drops his plate onto the desk. He pulls aside the curtains and stares out the balcony doors; the rain is beating a steady rhythm outside. A car honks. He catches his breath.

He uninstalled Grindr during the first week of December. He’d invited someone over two nights before, but after ten minutes he’d asked the guy to leave. The guy (short hair, skinny hips, quick mouth, long fingers—) had tried to laugh it off and kiss him again, reaching for Richie’s zipper, but Richie had pushed him away. Maybe with a little more force than he’d intended, but. Well.

Yeah, he probably deserved to have the door slammed in his face.

[8:15] fine whatever i’ll drop off the stupid reports let’s just drop it

[8:17] You can always talk to me you know

[8:20] thanks but no

What’s there to talk about? _Hey, Bill, I slept with our boss a few months back and I can’t stop thinking about him._ Yeah, sure. That’ll go well.

Richie grabs his room key and slips it into the pocket of his sweatpants before digging through his briefcase for the files. He runs a hand through his hair, grimacing as he glimpses himself in the mirror next to the door. He looks like a hot mess.

He makes his way down to the hall and nods at Carl where he stands alert at the junction leading to the president’s suite.

“Mustache’s looking good, Carl,” he says, patting the agent on the shoulder as he passes by.

“You gotta rein in that jealousy, Tozier.”

“Never. You can’t make me, Goose.”

Richie winks and Carl gives a hearty laugh as he reaches for his earpiece to announce his arrival. Ben reaches for the doorknob as he walks up.

“Trashmouth.”

“Benjamin.”

“Nice pants. Very professional.”

“Thanks, they make my ass look great. And they really frame my d—”

Ben scoffs and mutters what Richie’s pretty sure is _oh for fuck’s sake_ as he quickly opens the door before Richie can finish his sentence.

The only lights on in the room are the bedside lamp and on the desk where Eddie’s sitting. The curtains are drawn shut against the city lights and the incessant storm. It’s quiet. No music, the television screen black. It feels… intimate. Richie shoves the thought out of his mind and makes his way towards the desk.

“Here are the updated reports on Iran’s nuclear program from State and Energy. I know your meeting about Ukraine isn’t until Thursday, but just in case arms control comes up tomorrow, I slipped in the latest figures for you.”

“Thanks, Richie,” Eddie says, leaning back in his chair to take the folders. “How’d your meetings go? Please tell me you played nice with Gutiérrez. I know he’s, uh.”

“Loud? Arrogant? Wrong? Also, play nice? You’ve really gotta stop listening to Stan.”

Eddie gives him a look. Richie shrugs and tries not to smirk.

“I know he’s a lot to handle, but we needed a nuclear security official for this trip, and he’s the best. So please. Don’t try to correct him.”

“He completely screwed the pooch! He would’ve revealed classified information if I hadn’t stopped him! He still says ‘ _the’_ Ukraine!”

Eddie actually grimaces at that. It’s satisfying to see, but Richie doesn’t say that out loud.

“Yeah,” Eddie says after a second. “He kept doing it last month and I think the Ukrainian interpreter was about to lose it.”

“Would it be passive-aggressive to send him an email with links to various articles and podcasts episodes explaining why it’s just ‘Ukraine’? Isn’t his specialty area the former Soviet block? It’s baffling, dude— uh, sir.”

“Yes, it would, so please don’t.”

“You just like to put a stop to all my fun,” Richie says, cracking a grin and resting his hip against the desk. He’s abruptly aware of the subtle way he’s leaning into Eddie’s space. He should move. He should probably go. The reports are in Eddie’s (very) capable hands and it’s getting pretty late.

He doesn’t move.

“If I can’t be passive-aggressive, neither can you,” Richie says, fully sitting on the desk now. The edge is digging into his thigh, his knee angled toward Eddie. He’s suddenly extremely aware of the fact that he’s wearing sweatpants that leave absolutely nothing left for the imagination.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Richie laughs under his breath and Eddie’s eyes snap up to meet his, and suddenly he’s not laughing anymore. He can feel the color settling high on his cheeks. He crosses his arms across his chest, a tremor running through his hand as he aches to reach out and touch.

“Uh-uh, I heard what happened today. I know you were two seconds away from calling Trudeau a hypocritical little bitch,” Richie says. “ _Again_.”

“Well, he is!” Eddie yells, leaning forward in his chair and gripping the edge of the desk right next to Richie’s knee.

A chill runs up his body, setting him on edge. His heart is hammering in his chest now. _What the fuck is happening. Calm down or you’re gonna fuck this up again._

“You should have heard what he said when our British ambassador was explaining what was happening with the UN’s latest attempts to gain access to the detention camps in Xinjiang. They’re holding the Uighur people illegally. Their own citizens! It’s disgusting. And Trudeau was trying to be a quote-unquote reasonable voice, whatever the hell that means—”

“Hey! It’s all right! We all know he’s an asshole, but you gotta keep your cool, man,” Richie says, his voice strained even to his own ears. He can feel Eddie’s index finger against his knee, now. Neither of them has moved away. He should move. He should stand up and make his way towards the door.

He doesn’t.

He nudges himself further onto the desk and his leg slides easily on the wood, fitting his knee firmly against Eddie’s wrist. Richie’s never been subtle a day in his life. Why start now?

Eddie doesn’t move either. He’s still leaning forward in his chair. He’s still looking Richie straight in the eye.

“Don’t call me _man_ , Richie,” Eddie says, probably a little huskier than he’d intended judging from the way he blinks and looks down at his lap before lifting his eyes again.

“Sorry, sir,” he says, softer now, thinking about all the things he’d rather call him. You’re amazing, he’d say, kissing his way down Eddie’s chest. You’re beautiful, he’d say. You’re perf— “I’m just saying take it easy tomorrow. We’re only here a few more days. He’s not worth your energy.”

_I am._

“He’s a hypocrite,” Eddie replies, but he’s losing steam, Richie can hear it. Then he feels Eddie’s hand shift against him. He doesn’t look down, he can’t, but his crossed arms lose all their tension when Eddie’s thumb sweeps across his knee and his fingers curl under his calf. Richie can feel the heat from his palm through his pants.

“Canada treats their native population like shit,” Eddie’s still saying. “I know we’re not the best either, but at least we didn’t let that fucking pipeline go through the Dakotas.”

Eddie’s fingers flex as he talks, squeezing his leg just firmly enough to let them both know he’s fully aware of what he’s doing. Richie shivers again and it settles deep in his stomach.

“He thinks if maybe we’re lenient with China, maybe if we give them a second chance, a third chance to change their tactics before the UN forces their hand,” Eddie continues, voice quiet and rough at the edges. “Maybe if we give China more time to explain, we’ll keep turning a blind eye to what his country’s doing, too.”

“Maybe there’s something to be said for second chances,” Richie says, heart pounding so loudly in his ears he can hardly hear himself speak.

“Maybe there is,” Eddie finally says after a drawn-out pause.

Richie’s too nervous to move, breathing heavily through his mouth. But then Eddie stands up, his hand sliding up to hold onto Richie’s thigh right above the knee. Eddie’s standing right between his open legs now. They’re practically the same height like this, with him still sitting on the desk, so it’s easy to see the way his gaze drops to Richie’s lips and down the rest of his body. He knows he’s half-hard at this point, it’s pretty fucking difficult to ignore, and he knows Eddie can see that.

It’s easy to reach for him this time. He doesn’t care about anything at this point other than wanting to kiss him again—finally, fucking _finally_ — so he lifts his hand to the back of Eddie’s neck and pulls him forward. His hips are resting against the insides of Richie’s thighs and it’s taking everything he has not to move; not until Eddie says yes.

But then Eddie hesitates for what feels like too long and Richie starts to lose his nerve, so he loosens his grip on the nape of his neck even as he feels Eddie’s hand travel the rest of the way up his thigh until it’s tight on his hip.  
  
“We can st—” he starts to say, barely a whisper an inch from his lips, but Eddie doesn’t let him finish.

Eddie lunges forward so quickly their teeth knock together. Richie feels off-balance in so many ways but there’s no time to think about it, not when Eddie’s making that quiet, desperate little sound in the back of his throat. Richie’s hand finds the small of his back and pulls him forward until there’s no empty space between them.

He feels Eddie’s hand slip under the edge of his shirt, fingers raking through the hair on his stomach before starting to dip lower, fingertips slipping beneath his waistband and stopping there. He groans into Eddie’s mouth and nips at his bottom lip when Eddie starts to pull back to smile at him.

“Patience—” Eddie tries to say against his lips but it turns into a gasp when Richie tightens his legs around him, trapping his hand between them.

“I’ve been patient,” Richie says, the words _you’ve said too much again_ overwhelmingly loud in his head immediately, so he kisses him again to shut them both up.

All he can think about is how hot Eddie’s fingers are against his skin, pulling at the waistband teasingly as his tongue pushes into Richie’s mouth. He pulls away to catch his breath and drags his cheek across the edge of Eddie’s jaw, the rasp of his stubble a sharp sound in the quiet room, punctuated by the way Eddie gasps into his ear. He kisses down his neck, satisfied by the desperate way Eddie’s other hand is moving across his shoulder, the back of his neck. Anything he can touch.

“Richie,” Eddie whispers a soft warning. He pulls his attention away from that soft spot right below his jaw, kissing it softly once more before pulling the collar of Eddie’s shirt aside.

He feels Eddie shudder when he kisses that soft spot where his neck and shoulder meet, sucking at his skin just hard enough that he knows it’ll leave a reminder. Nobody will be able to see it, not when his shirt is buttoned up and his tie is tight around his neck, but when he takes his shirt off tomorrow, he’ll have no choice but to be reminded of this, of Richie. The thought makes his weak, every thought gone from his mind except wanting Eddie closer, his hand sliding from his lower back to the curve of his ass and pulling him impossibly closer. He feels Eddie’s erection press hard against the inside of his thigh and he can’t help the moan that slips past his lips.

He licks at the abused skin beneath his mouth and that’s when Eddie shoves his hand down Richie’s pants. He can’t help but bite down in surprise when Eddie’s hand finds his cock, which only makes him grip him harder, thumb brushing over the head and driving him crazy.

Richie plasters his forehead against his neck, Eddie’s harsh pants loud in the quiet room and it’s the most alive he’s felt in months. He reaches down to pull at Eddie’s belt, struggling to do it with one hand while Eddie jerks him off relentlessly, unwilling to remove his other hand from its desperate grip on his ass.

“Oh, _fuck_ —” Eddie says, sounding absolutely undone, his breath hot against Richie’s ear.

“I know,” he mumbles, giving up on the belt and rubbing his palm against Eddie’s cock through his pants. “Eddie, you’re so—”

“No, fuck, I mean— Richie, the phone—”

“What?”

Then he hears it, the incessant buzzing coming from the other side of the desk where Eddie’s cell is threatening to topple right off the surface. Richie hadn’t even noticed, his senses too overwhelmed and frayed, too busy being torn apart piece by piece. He looks from the phone back to Eddie.

“Oh, shit.”

Eddie looks just as ravaged as Richie feels and it’s. Well. He looks fucking beautiful, if Richie’s being honest. His cheeks are flushed red and his hair is a sweaty mess, falling down towards his eyes. He’s fucking breathtaking.

“I need you to be quiet for me, okay?” Eddie swipes a thumb across Richie’s swollen lips, looking him straight in the eyes.

“I— yeah. Yeah,” Richie manages to say before kissing him one more time and shoving his face against Eddie’s neck again.

He tries to control his breathing but it’s impossible, not when Eddie’s still touching him like that, not when Eddie’s clearing his throat and _picking up the phone._

“Yes?” he says immediately, and he sounds so fucking calm and collected that Richie’s cock twitches hard in Eddie’s hand.

It’d be easier if Eddie stopped touching him, but he doesn’t. He says things like “I understand, but is there any chance this can wait?” and “Are you positive?” and “Yes, you should probably get the admiral on the line” while he jerks Richie off, slow and fucking steady.

“Hey,” Eddie says so softly it makes his chest ache. “I’m sorry, I’ve got to talk to the admiral about this situation, I’ll just— I’ll only be a minute, alright?”

Richie nods without really understanding what’s happening, not until Eddie’s cradling his face and kissing him so fucking gently even as he pulls his hand out of his pants. He feels bare and empty when Eddie takes a step backwards, a hand trailing down his thigh and squeezing his knee as an apology. He feels exposed, winded, his mind struggling to catch up to what’s happening.

He slides off the desk as Eddie picks the phone back up, wandering towards the bed and sitting down as he talks to the admiral. Richie tugs his hoodie down, straightening it out and shoving the end over the front of his sweatpants. He’s still desperately hard, but he feels the arousal start to slip. He feels like he’s got whiplash. He looks over at Eddie and sees him playing with the collar of his shirt, fingertips lingering on the mark Richie left on him. A chill runs up his back, spreading down his arms. His hands feel numb. Disconnected.

_I need to go. I have to—_

There’s a knock at the door, heavy and firm, but somehow still tentative. It’s Ben. Richie knows it’s Ben. How long has he been in here? Shit. _Shit._

Eddie looks up at him and gapes for a second, fumbling over his words for a split second before turning his attention back to his conversation. Richie stands there for what feels like an eternity, at a complete loss for what to do. He takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair, adjusting what’s left of his erection before pulling the edge of his hoodie down as far as it’ll go and walking towards the door.

Ben’s waiting on the other side with a look on his face that looks so regretful and apologetic that Richie feels himself flush with embarrassment.

“Sorry, Rich—”

“He’s on the phone with the chairman,” Richie interrupts, shifting awkwardly. He opens the door further so Ben can see past his shoulder.

“What do you need, Hanscom?”

“I’ve got some schedule changes for tomorrow, sir,” Ben says, but he’s still looking at Richie.

Richie looks away.

“Can it wait?”

“I’m afraid not, sir, there’s been some security changes that I need to brief you on and—”

“I’m just gonna, uh,” Richie says suddenly, tripping over his words. “I’m gonna leave you to it, Mr. President. I’ll see you in the morning?”

He says it like a question but he’s already starting to back out of the door, hand tight on the doorknob. Eddie’s looking at him so openly it hurts. He hesitates, everything in his chest pulling him back to Eddie’s side, to his soft lips and the way he holds Richie’s face when he kisses him.

“Richie, please stay, it won’t take very long,” Eddie says, turned around on the bed now, facing the doorway. Hand on the mattress, like he’s reaching for him. Like he wants him to stay. Like he wants him.

 _Please stay_ echoes in his mind. He takes another step backward.

“I’ll just— I’ve got to go,” Richie thinks he manages to say.

His ears are buzzing. The silence of the hallway feels overwhelmingly loud as he hurries towards his room. He drops his room key twice before he manages to press it to the electronic lock. The door clicks open and he bursts inside, collapsing on the edge of the bed. The TV’s still on, his dinner plate still on the desk. His phone’s on the nightstand, right where he left it. The notification light is blinking.

Everything’s just the way he left it. He glances at the clock; it’s almost half past ten. He feels like he’s aged ten years in the last two hours. How could he let it happen again?

“Fuck!”

He paces the room, hand buried in his hair. It’s still damp with sweat; he can still feel Eddie’s lips on his. He feels cold without their bodies pressed together. He misses him so much. He feels like an idiot.

_Please stay._

Eddie had asked him to stay and he’d run away because deep down, Richie knows that if he’d stayed, he never would have left his side again. He wants him so fucking bad.

He loves him so fucking much.

He finds himself reaching for his phone and collapsing onto the bed. He tosses his glasses onto the mattress and buries his face in the pillow, screaming into it so loudly that Bill can probably hear two doors down. He opens his phone and ignores all the other messages waiting for him and clicks on Stan’s name.

 _stan i fucked up,_ he types out, heart pounding.

Stan answers back almost immediately.

[10:41] Personal life or professional?

Richie swallows hard.

[10:42] both technically

His hand starts to shake. He starts to type again.

[10:43] i’m in love with eddie

He presses send.

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I snuck some real-life political issues in here. It's not "the" Ukraine, China has been detaining ethnic minorities in detention camps for years, and basically every country sucks when it comes to taking care of native populations. I have to use my degree for something.
> 
> You can find me @berrkmanblock on Twitter :)


End file.
